Hawkeye: Rescue Mission::
by journey-scribe
Summary: S.H.I.E.L.D. must send in Agent Clint Barton to protect and escort Jessica Evans, a newly discovered eyewitness to a large crime boss's operations. She is the best piece of evidence they have against the long-investigated Alistair Falcone and must make it home to the U.S. from France alive and able to testify to bring him down once and for all.
1. Segment 1

**Rescue Mission**

_Segment 1_

Jessica's sweaty hands wrung together, reddened by her tight and anxious grasp. Wavy, blonde locks of her disheveled hair drifted into her face, a thin curtain over her eyes tickling her brow and cheeks, but she only paused her restlessness to shove them away with one quick sweep of her hand. Her hotel room would appear pleasant and serene to any passerby, but the silence and emptiness felt like the chilled touch of death itself to the runaway, enveloping her in dim evening light and deafening her with fears of what else would rise with the sun if she dared fall asleep. She wasn't here for vacation, to tour this city of Paris or any of France for that matter. No, it was a business trip gone wrong, as she might have jested if her heart could quit thumping in her chest like a bumblebee in a Styrofoam cup. How could she not have noticed those six Colombians at the back of the plane, their fearful gazes, their locked jaws and cautious glances toward the two thugs around them? After five months of employment, how could she have only now discovered the true purpose for all of these trips overseas? They were not business transactions for the sale of machinery, but for human labor. How blind could she be?

A rigid vibrate jerked her stiffened body to the reality around her; someone was calling her phone. She'd stifled the ringtone earlier then set it to rest on the bed. Hand shaking violently, she reached for the active device as one might for a snake that she isn't sure is dead. Was this it? Had her ex-boss found her? So soon? Another vibrate trickled down her limb as she brushed a finger across the touch screen. Both relief and apprehension raced to her widening, cerulean eyes when the caller ID was displayed: _Mom_.

"No!" she gasped breathlessly, immediately fearing the worst. Nothing could stop her in that moment from answering the call; if anything were to happen, it would be to her, not her mother. She would see to that! "He-hello?" she managed hoarsely from hours without a voice.

"Hello, Miss Jessica Evans," a deep, male voice answered, casually but matured by some hidden knowledge. Its lack of familiarity was neither soothing nor nerve-wracking yet. "As you can probably tell, this is not yo' momma," the mysterious man, allegedly black by his tone, continued. "This is Director Nick Fury of S.H.I.E.L.D., and I have an agent ready to assist you."

Jessica's eyes widened, her head shaking in disbelief. So many questions flowed to her mind in that instant. "S.h-S.H.I.E.L.D.; what is that? Wh-where is my mother?" She made every effort to keep her voice still and calm.

"Probably at home," Director Fury easily replied, "I just used her number so you'd pick up. The only thing you need to know about S.H.I.E.L.D. is that you can trust us. We have a source inside of Falcone's company that alerted us to your situation. We need you to cooperate so that we can get you back to the states and under the protection of the law. Do you understand?"

Jessica swallowed an iron lump in her throat. She understood. But could she cooperate with complete strangers? What other options did she have? Wait for Falcone to find her and _then_ die? "Y-Yes…" she blinked back the shallow tears blearing her eyes, "Thank you." Her voice softened, allowing herself to submit to further explanation.

Satisfied by her response, Fury continued. "Alright, first thing I want you to do is close the blinds on your windows." Jessica lifted her eyes to the blinds that she had already shoved closed – one of the first things she did upon entering the room. "Second thing I want you to do is take the SIM card out of this phone and slide it under the bed; this will deactivate your phone but also keep them from tracking you."

Jessica nodded intently even though he couldn't see it, biting down on her lower lip to concentrate on his every word.

"Thirdly, there will be a knock at your door, three short knocks; the man knocking is named Agent Clint Barton. He will assist you from here on out. Our plan is to have you home in less than two days. Good luck, and do exactly as he tells you. Goodbye, Miss Evans."

She had an opportunity to stop him from hanging up, should she have any questions, but only released a quick, "I-I will. Thank you," before the call had ended. With a few deep breaths, the air she inhaled felt hollow, much like the butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling, and her arms felt weary as they braced to push her from the plush mattress to her feet. Her unsteady fingers quickly clicked the back of the phone open, withdrawing the SIM card just as she had been instructed. Sliding it along the clean carpet into the shadows beneath the bedframe, she'd only just stood up, grabbing her brown, leather purse and beige jacket to be ready, when three short knocks reached her ears.

Jessica exhaled to ease some tension in her shoulders as she crept to the door to answer. Before her stood a man a few inches taller than her, intense by demeanor but handsome, looking away until she came into view. His hair was a dull, light brown shade and short, spiking up above his forehead and wide, ocean blue eyes. He wore a plain, gray shirt beneath a black leather jacket, his hands slipping out of his jean pockets upon greeting her. "Miss Evans, Clint Barton," his baritone voice spoke up as he lifted some badge before her; it bore an unfamiliar symbol but matched the acronym Director Fury had used. "May I come in?" he lowered the badge, expression impassive yet emanating some empowering aura of confidence.

"Yes, of course," she accommodated, slipping out of his way.

Clint spared no moment to follow and step past her further inside. As she carefully closed the door behind him, he scanned the room briefly with only his gaze before turning to face her and await her attention. "You removed your SIM card?" he asked calmly, hands resting on his hips.

"Yes, it's under the bed," she nodded, flustered but pressing back her inner panic for his sake.

Clint nodded, staying matter-of-fact. "Then it's time to pack up. You got luggage?"

Jessica opened her mouth to respond but found the answer difficult. Her luggage? When would she have had time, running for her life? "No, I-I didn't..." she winced. The story was way too long to explain. "No," she concluded, smiling a little uneasily at her clumsy answer.

"Good," he nodded, still nearly expressionless, as she might have expected from a secret agent. "You'd better get some sleep; we've got a flight in four hours." With that he moved past her to lock the hotel door and then silently approached the windows to investigate them also.

Jessica frowned in faint surprise, glancing down at the purse and jacket she'd been hugging at her side. "Uh—okay," she agreed quietly, setting her things down on the mattress and stealing another few glances toward the busied agent in the meantime.

Upon locking the windows, he peered meaningfully behind the edge of blinds, likely spying by streetlight for any undesired guests.

Jessica's eyes paced with thoughts of something else to say; somehow, she needed to be more of a hostess than this. It would do her escort no good for her to be a shy victim of circumstance. Clearing her throat, she spoke up before knowing what to say, "Um, Mr. Barton?" He turned his eyes to her curiously, and she soon felt half-ridiculous for the words to follow. "Can I…get you anything? A…" she winced, realizing she was hardly in a proper hostess position to offer, "Glass of water?" It really was the best she could do in an obscure hotel room.

While she regretted even bringing it up, Clint shook his head, unfazed by the abrupt proposal. "I'm fine," he replied, eyes crinkling as a subtle, amused smirk tugged at his mouth. "I'll keep watch. You just rest." The command was offered gently, and – even as she could hardly see herself sleeping – Jessica nodded in agreement and soon curled up on the mattress beside her possessions, atop the comforter with one arm wrapped beneath the pillow. She couldn't see taking off her shoes and snuggling into the fluffy embrace of the sheets and blankets, but she would try to at least rest her eyes…just for an hour or so…she'd probably need it.

Clint watched as the woman he was to protect lied rigidly on the hotel bed. Her gold hair fell clumsily into her face, and she brushed it back while shifting to a comfortable position. Despite her obvious anxiety, he was content to observe that his presence had at least helped her drift asleep within ten minutes. The agent mostly kept a watchful eye out the window for suspicious activity but hardly resisted a few glances, now and then, toward the sleeping Miss Evans.


	2. Segment 2

**Rescue Mission**

Segment 2

It hardly felt that she'd drifted off for a few minutes when an abrupt touch pressed on her shoulder, at first in the dream, then in reality. Jessica jerked a little, tension of recalling her situation arising until Agent Barton came into view once again, gently nudging her awake. "Time to head out, Miss Evans," he mumbled, his warm hand settling against her arm for a moment before withdrawing again.

Blinking back bonds of drowsiness tying her to the soft mattress, Jessica willed herself to sit up and reach for her purse and jacket. In fact, she was about ready to slip the jacket on, as the chill of the night had finally caught up to her, when Clint stepped up slipping something out of a bag slung about his shoulder.

"Here," he offered a black hoodie rolled up in his hand, "wear the hood up until I tell you you're good to put it down, okay?" With that, she set her own possessions down and hurriedly slipped the hoodie on over her head, covering easily her loose blouse.

Clint's eyes glanced down briefly, as though somehow affording her privacy, before he shifted toward the door to once again unlock it. "We'll have to eat on the way," he stated, glancing back at her for a reaction.

Jessica bunched her hair behind her head and slipped on the hood, following his steps to the door after hugging her possessions. She offered a quick nod in response to meeting his gaze, merely doing her best to be a good client.

Clint looked back at her upon feeling her draw behind. He smiled a little, acknowledging her readiness. "Let's go." With that, he pulled the door open, calmly slipping on sunglasses as they strode down the hall.

They moved straight through the lobby, and the clerk didn't seem to mind, Jessica observed. He must've already checked out? The chill of early morning swept within her hood and through her uncombed hair, the bite of lingering night sending a shiver along her skin. Much as she'd love to be an early bird, Jessica had always thought no human being should be up before the sun.

A normal, tan Sedan – about as inconspicuous as one could get in the middle of France – was the vehicle Clint led her to. Soon they were in, with him driving and her slipping on a seatbelt, luckily escaping any traffic – one advantage to being up when no one else was. After a couple minutes of settling in, Clint tilted his head to gesture toward the back. "Should be a Ziploc'd plate back there with breakfast if you're hungry."

Jessica smiled a little, glancing back at the seat but remaining too stiff for any other action. "Thank you, but…I don't think I could eat right now…" Her eyes lowered to her hands uneasily, trying very hard to keep a brave face for the poor guy.

Clint glanced at her a few times but hesitated before speaking. "You're safe with me, Miss Evans. Maybe more safe than you think."

Jessica lifted her gaze to him, mouth opening to quickly counter the reaction.

"I'm gonna get you home," Clint finished, coolly meeting her anxious gaze.

She quickly shook her head, speaking up to clarify. "No, I didn't meant to…imply that…" The glint in his eyes, a bit softened and light despite his seriousness, trailed off her words. He hadn't thought she'd been implying anything; he'd only been trying to reassure _her_.

With a hesitant smile, she nodded again, eyes lowering. "I…can't thank you enough; really not sure what I would've done." She chuckled half-humorlessly at the absolute truth.

Clint smirked subtly, vibrant eyes back on the road. "Thank me when you're safely home and that creep's in jail."

Jessica laughed a little wearily, shifting to rest her head back on the seat. Drifting into her thoughts, she grew silent.

Glancing at her once more, he kept driving, allowing the silence to remain.

Five or ten minutes passed with the awkward…absolutely nothing being said. _Surely there is something I could talk about, but how classified is he…just…as a person?_ _Well, I guess we'll find out. Here goes_. With an internal wince, a new conversation sprung from her good intention of getting to know the mysterious agent. "Ssso…" she cleared her throat. _Weak start with a crackly voice._ "You, uh, go on missions like this all the time?" she casually asked, eyebrows furrowing as she realized just how much she sounded like a goob asking.

Clint glanced at her when she talked, face momentarily blank toward her question. "'Like this,' maybe not. Missions, absolutely." His eyes crinkled when he looked toward her again, seemingly easygoing toward the conversation, to her happy surprise.

Eyes brightening with interest – she'd always been a fan of cop shows and mystery novels as a teenager – she shifted in her seat while continuing. "You must travel around a lot then." Carefully stepping around potentially classified information, she went for a broad question. "Do you like it?"

A bit more of a smile formed with another glance away from the road. "Oh, yeah," he answered easily, "Traveling's great. A little less great at 5 in the morning," the passing comment was accompanied with a nod toward the car clock: _5:13, _"but I still enjoy it."

Jessica laughed a little. The sleepiness drooping her eyes alone told her she was up too early, but to have an agent comment on it made him feel a bit more…human? "Yeah, I…I know what you mean. Coming to France seemed just…so incredible to me…" Her eyes grew more animated with further thought into the topic. "Not quite the country I've been hoping to see, but…it's still beautiful."

Clint glanced at her several times through her talking, but a light smirk formed with a spark of curiosity. "What kinda country were you hopin' to see?"

Jessica smiled, gazing up at the copper streetlights and endless array of massive French buildings. So much the opposite of her answer to Clint's question. "Somewhere…open and fresh. A place you can breathe, you know?" She glanced in his direction with a more relaxed smile. "I've always liked the idea of Australia or...well, definitely Ireland." Her lips pressed together, looking to him for a response.

"I've been," he nodded with little pause. "They're both exactly that. Open, fresh, almost like an alien planet but somehow exactly the same." His eyes crinkled, glancing toward her as though recognizing her passion for the subject.

Jessica grinned a little, easing into the conversation more and more. "Well, I definitely have to get down there then!" She paused, shrugging toward him. "So out of everywhere you've been, what was your favorite place?" Her head tilted, curiously watching him.

Clint focused on making a turn across the busy intersection but looked at her once again when finished. "Uhh, I'd have to say Canada." He smirked as though she might've thought his answer was odd.

Jessica's eyes crinkled with surprise but genuine interest. "Really?" she grinned, "Why is that?"

Clint shook his head, hardly on a long search to explain. "The scenery was…breath-taking. The people were probably the world's friendliest."

"Hm…I'd love to see that…" she commented, drifting a bit more into thought as her tension from reality gradually receded.

Clint grunted a little in response, shrugging. "Maybe you'll get there some day…I'm here to ensure you get the chance, Miss Evans."

Jessica softened her smile, considering a moment. "You know, you can just call me Jessica," she offered politely, frowning as potential repercussions questioned the statement, "Unless that's…too informal for your mission or…"

She stopped there with a small laugh when he glanced in her direction with a slightly teasing smirk. "Generally not wise, considering we're undercover." He exhaled with exaggeration, drawing a bit more of a laugh from her.

"Ohh," she shook her head, eyebrows furrowing in playful shame, "That's a good point. I take it back, you can't."

He shrugged, his tone returning to mere friendliness. "I could call you _Lynne._"

Jessica's eyebrows raised at first. Had she told him her middle name? _Oh…mission file..duh._ "That would work," she smiled, recovering quickly from the surprise. With that she relaxed into her seat, the awkwardness diminishing as a crust of orange awakened amidst the once starry night sky. The sun was finally rising.


	3. Segment 3

Segment 3

As the morning fully awakened and the busy airport drew near, the two grew understandably silent with anticipation. Tension rose far more abruptly when Clint located a spot in a lower level of the parking garage and they were soon unclicking their seatbelts. It was time to move.

"Alright, stay close to me, act natural as you can," Clint strode around the car to the passenger side, his voice lower but clear in the quiet, unpopulated garage. "You're not gonna wear your hood up here 'cause we're more at the mercy of French security's suspicion than an assault from Falcone."

Jessica nodded and listened as dutifully as she could, his commands blasting like a tornado through her muddled thoughts.

Apparently satisfied by her response, he turned to lead her toward an elevator, paying his watch a brief glance. "Alright, about an hour till our flight; let's get movin'."

Again, Jessica only silently complied, preoccupied with a sudden feeling of vulnerability. She could be under gunpoint right then with no moving vehicle to shield them. What if her ex-boss sent twenty guys into the very garage to eliminate her? Could Clint take on twenty thugs, trained and dangerous, no doubt, with such a resourceful employer?

The more she thought of possible ambushes or being sniped just like in the TV shows, the more her steps quickened, which hardly moved her ahead of Clint's brisk strides. At first glance, he appeared calm, but his jaw was tightened and his shoulders stiff as he walked. His vibrant blue eyes scanned their surroundings every moment they spent crossing the inner lot. Just as the final path to cross was all that they lacked, Clint reacted nearly simultaneously, pushing past her like a shield with a gun drawn at his side, facing the low growl of a smooth, revving engine.

Jessica tensed at Clint's reaction, stumbling a little at his sudden movement, but bracing her feet behind him just as a black Mustang sped from the end of the road straight toward them. Her breath escaped in an instant, leaving her to internally panic when Clint turned and shoved her across the path, further along.

"Go, go!" he hardly yelled it, but the urgent tone rang clear.

Jessica dashed to the elevator, Clint directly behind, and reached for the button, pressing it in scarcely before she was forced to the ground by a firm hand on her shoulder. "Get down!" Clint ordered through gritted teeth, the words overlapped by dozens of rattling gunshots tearing through the air.

Jessica dropped even further toward the ground than Clint had pushed her, instinctively covering her ears, stunned by how much realistically louder the assault rifle fire echoed. Gasping for air in the nightmarishly long moments, she jumped when her ally retaliated with two, solid pistol rounds. A man's screams followed, and the source was soon spotted bent halfway out the Mustang window, gun dangling by some shoulder strap.

"Did you get the elevator?" Clint called back, ducking behind the cover of a metal bin he'd kicked in the way of the enemy's sights.

"I-did…" her voice trailed off, daring to twist her neck enough to see the glowing button. She'd pressed it; surely it was coming soon. "Yeah, it's coming!" she called over the deafening squeal of tires rapidly rotating to reverse the aggressive vehicle.

Clint peered over his cover at the rushing Mustang; the passenger seat gunman blasted more assault rifle rounds straight at the two, causing the agent to duck behind, glancing in Jessica's direction to confirm she was safely hunkered down behind him. Thankfully, she had listened, staying close but safe once she'd hit the elevator button. When the AK-47 rounds ceased, Clint whipped out from behind, pistol aimed, and fired, the driver's head knocked back into his seat as the bullet passed the windshield and pierced straight between his eyes. Clint squinted to read the passenger's movement, observing one rushed hand grasping the wheel and jerking it straight toward a crash into their position, slamming on the gas pedal to board the sidewalk.

"Watch out!" Clint yanked his client along as she climbed to her feet, pinning her with an arm behind his back against a nearby wall as the car bashed through the bin and past the elevator where they'd just hidden. In that instant, the agent took a quick aim and fired two more shots through the windshield, only briefly confirming he'd hit his target before turning and crouching over Jessica in the shelter of the brick wall corner where the Mustang wouldn't reach, at least not without a live driver.

Further on, the vehicle crashed into a light pole, sparks showering down from a disturbed bulb above. Jessica stared over Clint's shoulder in silent shock at the victory until her protector turned and focused in on her to ask a question. "You alright?" he exhaled, pulling away from the close proximity to look her over then reload his pistol.

"Y-yeah," Jessica swallowed with a parched throat, "are you?" He'd been more shot at than her.

Clint looked at her again, eyes crinkling subtly as they seemed to out of amusement. "Yeah," he answered simply, gesturing with a hand to lead her to the elevator. The thick, metal doors still had yet to open, even after Clint had slammed the button in once more. Mere seconds passed before he faced her again. "Either out of service or tampered with – least they could've done is put up a sign," the sarcastic comment was half-mumbled but still a part of the interaction, the humor easing just a small fragment of Jessica's anxiety. "We're taking the stairs," with that, he led her to the stairway door, eyes inspecting outside and within the entrance as they approached.

Sounds of alertness arrived in the garage, presumably security, as the pair hurried up the steps into the expanse of the airport. Jessica glanced back at Clint, who was following close behind, eyes consistently scanning the path ahead of them. Despite his concentrating, she deemed her question necessary enough. "What will security do when they find those men?" she asked quietly while looking back.

Clint's eyebrows raised. "Investigate, but probably won't cancel our flight. French security isn't tight as the U.S."

Upon an undisturbed journey up the stairs, Clint slipped his gun under his jacket and swung open the door to reveal a public, heavily populated airport lobby. Whatever his thoughts on Falcone's actions or what they needed to do next he kept to himself, silently searching the perimeter with an intense gaze and merely glancing back at Jessica to make sure she was keeping up at his side.

Partially diagonal from her protector, Jessica searched every face that passed by, receiving some odd looks even when she attempted to press back half of her inner terror to blend in. But none were hostile. Wherever Falcone's men were, she couldn't find them anywhere. But with so many people surrounding them, hopefully no more gunman would blast through with bullets aimed at her head.

Clint stopped to check an information screen hanging from the ceiling before continuing their descent to a docking area, completely silent for the time being, and leaving Jessica to shaken thoughts and memories of the garage encounter. Realism had shown its stone cold face; she'd been in the middle of one of those cop show gunfights, and, even with the heroism of her protector being so brave and competent that he shot down each of Falcone's men, it had still been shooting them…killing them. Self-defense claims could work in court, but how did they fare in stomaching the sight of a man dying?

She awoke from her daze enough to move through security with merely a purse and jacket to be checked as carry-ons, to wait in silence with her escort right beside her, and to board the plane, but all the change still felt as a blur drifting past her until Clint had settled in the aisle seat beside her, finally speaking again.

"How you holdin' up?" he simply asked, glancing about the busied passengers before looking at her again.

"Mm, I'm," she paused to clear her throat, scraping away the dryness to speak up, "I'm okay." She managed a soft smile in his direction. It may not have been true last night in the hotel room or when the Mustang sped toward them or the assault rifles went off in a spray of dozens of fatal bullets, but – seeing Clint take out the enemy with one against three – she felt far safer than she had in a long time. Because of Clint Barton, she could truthfully answer that she _was_ okay…now.


	4. Segment 4

Rescue Mission

Segment 4

"Your son Mr. Frank Falcone, sir," the placid, female voice over the receiver ceased before the voice of Alistair Falcone's son lifted.

"I hear you're havin' some trouble overseas there. De snitch escape over de border yet?" Frank questioned, casually swiveling in his leather-lined chair within his father's New York City corporation.

"Boarded half an hour ago an' headed your way as we speak. You remember Miss Evans, Frankie."

There was a pause on the other end. "Yeah, Ah remember her," he answered with a sharp edge to his voice, "Shame we have to waste _her_, I'd planned on takin' that doll somewhere different than the morgue."

"Plenty more dolls to play with, son," Alistair calmly exhaled, "Listen to me. Don't head 'em off at the airport. She's got a travelin' partner, and he's dangerous. He has to be government, bringin' a witness home for investigation. You have to eliminate 'em both, and you have to work fast."

Heaving a sigh, Frank replied, "I think Jess said she lived with her parents, to help 'em out. The doll won't be able to stand puttin' her sweet liddul modah in danger. I'll grab the old lady first."

Jessica started, tensing and catching herself from the sudden fall she'd dozed into. She cringed when Clint had turned his head to check on her, but the soft smile toward her ceased the embarrassment. "Did ya doze off?" he asked quietly.

She laughed a little shifting to face him instead of the window. "I must have." As Clint nodded, reseating a magazine he must've gotten bored with, Jessica rubbed the hazy, sleepiness from her eyes. "How long have we been up?"

Clint shrugged. "An hour. So we're…1/7 of the way there," his joking smile made the information slightly more bearable.

Jessica chuckled, hugging her jacket close against her to occupy her arms. "Never really liked math…I think 'we're part of the way there' or 'we've got a bit of a stretch left' might be more comforting," she teased sleepily.

Clint snorted, raising an eyebrow at her. "'Bit of a stretch'? That sounds _way_ too long. Least with 'we got six hours left,' you got something to go on."

"Aw, you had to say 'six hours'!" Jessica playfully dropped her head back against the seat.

Clint smirked, eyes shifting back toward the aisle when a flight attendant moved by.

Jessica's smile faltered in the pause, thoughts rushing in once more of all that had happened. So much to worry about, yanking her attention every which way until was stretched far too thin…'like butter over too much bread' as Tolkien's Bilbo Baggins would put it. Not only did she fear for herself but thoughts of the danger her family might face flashed before her in troubling 'what if's…anyone she loved could be someone Falcone might use to ensure her death. Clint had answered her questions in the car. She needed to record her testimony then she would be taken into protective custody somewhere; standard procedure, just a terrifying situation. Incidentally, the flight had been booked for Wyoming, a few hours from her parents' house. Almost before she'd asked, Clint assured her that they, too, wouldn't yet be alerted but that they would be protected. All she really had to _do_ right now was wait. But waiting in the silence only stacked on more anxieties. In her fearful rush of thoughts, the moment Clint spoke up again came as a crack in silence tense and solid as glass.

"So…" he began, not very awkwardly, merely to get her attention, "You always lived in Wyoming?"

The question was…sociable, a conversation starter like hers had been in the morning car ride. "Uh-no, actually. We moved around a lot when I was growing up, all across the states," she answered with a soft laugh. Then, something occurred to her, "You don't…already know that?" she paused to sound less direct.

Clint shrugged a little. "No, I do…" he answered, eyes crinkling just subtly in her direction. "You like it there?"

Though stunned by the friendliness, she was also warmed by it. "Well…yeah, I mean, it's friendly, weather's nice, except the never-ending wind," she groaned a little for emphasis.

He smirked, shaking his head. "I've basically only driven through the state; never stayed there long."

Jessica smiled, tilting her head to face him but still relax against her seat. "Well, next time you come through, at least stop in Cheyenne for drive-thru. We must have the best Chic-Fil-A there is."

Clint nodded, smiling subtly while he seemed to search for something else to say.

"Where…do you live? I mean, where's home for you?" she offered to keep the discussion from dwindling.

Clint's eyes watched hers briefly, before shrugging in his response. "I got a place over in Iowa. But I'm never really there."

"Mm, don't you ever…get downtime in your line of work?" her eyes softened, watching him curiously.

Clint smirked, glancing in her direction. "Yeah, now and then, but I don't use it to visit an empty house."

Jessica's smile faltered just slightly. He'd spoken the words so casually, words she herself would have spoken out of loneliness. "Heh, yeah," she relaxed more, attempting to establish some connection to the statement, "my dad always said he dreaded the day all four of us - my brother and sisters and I - left home. Didn't look forward to an empty house…"

"Yeah," Clint scoffed a bit lightly. "That wasn't my dad. He couldn't wait to get rid me and my brother…"

Jessica's eyebrows knit in surprise, mouth opening to reply but finding no words to gracefully comment with.

"'Course he kinda didn't care about anything but his glory days as a wrestler and the bottle he used to remember them by," he shrugged easily, glancing toward her with almost a humorless smirk.

She didn't know why, but there was a strange comfort in talking to Clint…one she never felt in comparison to avoiding any sensitive topic with a new friend, but...with this new friend, it almost felt natural to just ask. "What happened?" she softly released the question, still unsure of how he'd react.

Even in the midst of the experience, Jessica couldn't describe it. One moment they were casually conversing until the topic of home somehow drifted them into far deeper discussion. Jessica learned a little of Clint's past; he so readily shared it, fearing nothing of her infringing his privacy. Hours were filled with soft-spoken stories of a kid named Clint Barton, orphaned at a young age with his brother. Tales of how they survived, how they lived, how Clint had learned so many skills in circus and festival settings that he still used today as an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Over a difference of morals had Clint and his brother separated. A man had once approached Clint with an offer to split profits of heists with him in exchange for his rare talents, but Clint refused. Disgusted by the moral choice made over the "wise" choice, Clint's brother Barney had ended up offering his services to the man instead.

Though Clint had told her all of this with such nonchalance, Jessica was almost certain some pain remained and flickered in his eyes for all that he had lost. Slightly overwhelmed by that confidence he'd taken in her, Jessica struggled with knowing how honestly to react to the background, but the seeming comfort he bore in so easily sharing it eventually lifted her to fully truthful questions and responses while listening. She usually feared offended or arrogant reactions from people when she did so, but it soon seemed safe with him. "Do you know what ever happened to Barney?"

Clint's mouth twitched, his eyes growing distant. "No, he…" he inhaled, somehow needing another breath to finish, "The last time I saw Barney, he was standing over my body and left me for dead…after that I-didn't care-I didn't have a brother anymore…" After a short pause, his eyebrows furrowed subtly and he turned his gaze toward hers as though to read her expression.

Jessica, not quite sure how to feel about the story, nodded and dared to look straight into his eyes when saying, "I'm sorry."

In spite of the casual smirk, his eyes stayed steadily on hers. With a shrug, he mumbled, "What're you gonna do? Can't choose family."

Just then, the tone of the pilot addressing the plane sounded. "Attention, passengers, we are two hours out of Cheyenne and expect to arrive on-schedule. Enjoy the rest of the flight, and do not hesitate to consult a flight attendant should you require any assistance."

Jessica frowned with surprise. Had the time really passed so quickly?

"You know, you're brave though," the statement arrived abruptly and halfway under Clint's breath, but he looked at her after saying it. Upon receiving Jessica's questioning gaze, he elaborated. "Lotta people these days'd be too greedy or too freaked with a boss like Falcone. You stood up and left anyway, knowin' a bit of what he's capable of."

Jessica smiled just a little, eyes lowering under the weight of a compliment. "I was just doing what I thought was right…"

"Hm," Clint chuckled a little, almost with some bitter amusement, "Maybe if more people did that, the planet wouldn't be breakin' up around us."

She smiled a little more, eyes crinkling toward him admiringly. Eventually the conversation quieted, drifting Jessica back to rest. It had been a while since she felt relaxed enough to ease her eyes shut, but this plane ride had done the trick. Even with weariness overwhelming her, daring her to doze again, she remained half-conscious as thoughts of the discussion ever-flowed through her brain, all that she had learned of Clint Barton keeping her mind too active. The more she knew about him, the more questions she had. How much he had been through, terrible, life-shattering events she could hardly imagine having to survive, let alone come out of sane and stable. The more she learned of how many opportunities he'd had to go down a bad road, the more she realized maybe heroes really did exist, knowing the choices he made instead. It was like meeting one of the storybook characters she so admired in her teenage years; men made heroes by character and the choices they made, not by having it handed to them.

A gentle touch to her shoulder opened her eyes once more. "Plane's about to land," Clint explained with a friendly half-smile.

"Mm, already?" she gradually straightened in her seat.

"Yeah," Clint chuckled, "You get any rest?"

"Mm-hm," Jessica nodded, her tone perhaps overly optimistic in contrast to her lingering weariness.

Clint chuckled. "And here I was worried some minor turbulence might have you screamin' in panic," he commented with a small grin. However, by now, he was pretty sure he could count on her not to panic irrationally. After that gunfight, after she'd sat through hours of his life story, if she hadn't screamed by now, she might not ever. She was a pretty easy client to be around. As they accompanied the rest of the passengers off the plane, Clint felt his phone vibrate in his jean pocket. The Caller ID read the alias for Nick Fury.


End file.
